Always By Your Side
by Sophia's-Obsessions
Summary: Curiosity draws John to a strange boy sitting by the fence that borders the school yard. A strange boy with no friends and who doesn't talk. A boy with curly black hair and a mean older brother. As the years pass by and their friendship grows, John finds he is more than willing to always stay by that strange boy's side. Johnlock. AU.
1. John: 7 Years Old

**Well here you are dear readers. Another story by yours truly. This was originally going to be just a one shot, but as I was writing this first chapter I found it was going to be way too long for a one shot, so here you are, a full chapter mini story. I have no clue how long this is going to be.**

**As always, reviews are blood. I mean. I would greatly appreciate it if you could please comment, that would be great... yeah... *coughs* **

**Anyways, a few disclaimers. First of all, I am American. I apologize for any of my stupid american mistakes, especially regarding anything to do with the schooling system. I did my best to try to do some research to get it remotely right. Also, this story is mine, but sadly, the characters are not, they belong to BBC and Mofftiss all that. Thank you all! You are all very lovely.**

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**John: 7 Years Old**

School was a scary place, especially when you're only seven years old and you have just moved to a new school halfway through the year. But as shy as he was, John Watson was determined to make new friends. He had promised Harry after all that he would 'not be a whimp. He would be a big boy.'

As blue eyes scanned the playground, John pulled his jacket closer. He hadn't realized that would be so hard to make new friends when everybody already had somebody. Even for his age he was always a polite little child and always hated to interrupt or intervene. Nobody seemed to notice the nervous boy on the edge of the playground, but the boy did notice someone. A curly haired boy off by the fence, crouched alone by the trunk of a large tree. Curious, John headed over.

"Are you new too?" John asked as he came to a stop beside the boy.

The boy didn't respond, didn't even move and he kept his focus on whatever was fascinating him with the trunk of the tree.

John shifted his weight nervously, letting out a breath. Maybe he just hadn't heard him. He decided to try again.

"What are you doing?" his voice was a little louder this time, but again he got no response.

John wasn't quite sure what to do at this point. Should he leave? Was he bothering the boy? Was there something wrong with him? What if he needed help?

John shook his head as if to shake out all the questions and worries. He watched the boy for a moment longer before crouching down next to the boy and following his gaze to a line of ants carrying food to their nest nestled at the base of the tree. John was captured by the tiny creatures just as much as the boy seemed to be, but he couldn't help but glance over at the boy next to him.

He was pale with dark black curls and blue eyes. He seemed a couple years younger than John, but only a couple. John turned back to the ants and found himself content to just sit beside the boy and watch them until the end of recess, even if it did make his legs tired.

The next few weeks passed much the same. Every day, John would come out to recess and find the boy alone, watching insects or just staring at nothing at all. Some days he would bring a book that was even beyond John's level. This was how John knew that the boy was smart and the blonde headed boy guessed that this was why his silent friend didn't seem to have any friends. He knew that kids didn't like it when someone was better than them, especially someone so young. It didn't matter to John, he thought the boy needed a friend and so he took it upon himself to become just that.

After the first week he gave up on asking questions every day and just narrowed it down to once a week when it became clear that the boy wasn't going to answer. Of course John had heard the rumors, been asked snide questions about why he hung out with the weird kid who didn't talk. Nobody knew his name, nobody bothered to learn it and John felt bad for the boy. He gave short answers that showed he didn't care that the boy was weird or different and always made sure to include the phrase, "he's my friend."

Often times, John wondered if the boy even knew he was there. He never gave any sign of noticing John's presence, but that didn't really bother the 7 year old. He would give him time. Much like his sister, he could be very persistent and determined. The one thing he had that his sister seemed to lack was patience.

One day, about a month after their first encounter, John noticed the boy after school, leaving the grounds with an older boy. He ran to catch up with them.

"Are you his big brother?" John asked, standing in front of the two boys, forcing them to momentarily stop.

The older boy blinked in surprise. "I am, as a matter of fact, and you are?"

"My name is John," John declared with a smile.

The older boy gave John a half smile that he would have recognized, if he was older, as a 'I'm being polite but you're really annoying me' smile. "Nice to meet you John, but we are trying to get home so if you could—"

"Why doesn't he talk?" John interrupted, unable to help himself. Even now the boy was staring at his feet with his brother's arm resting across the back of his shoulders.

"There is simply no need," the older boy explained with a roll of his eyes. "There is nothing that needs to be said to people like… _you_."

John frowned. "Like me? What kind of people am I?" he asked

The older boy sneered slightly. "_Stupid._" And he left John standing there, hurt as he led the boy away.

The next day John didn't go straight to the boy's side. He didn't go to see him at all as the dark haired boy sat reading on a bench. Instead, John chose to go sit under the tree where he had first met the boy and pull his knees up to his chest as he stared at the boy from across the school yard. Did he really think that John was stupid? It had come from the boy's older brother, but it was clear that he was speaking for the both of them. John knew he wasn't smart, at least not as smart as the boy, but did that really mean that he didn't want to be friends? Was John the reason that the boy wouldn't talk to him?

He wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in them, sniffling as he tried not to cry, tried not to be hurt by the words and by the circumstances.

"Sherlock."

The voice startled him as his head shot up and he sniffed, his eyes glistening with tears that threatened to spill.

The dark curly haired boy stood there, his frame, which was a little tall for his age, towered over John. His hand was tucked into his black coat and his book tucked under the other arm. They stared at each other and there was an understanding that only friends could have between each other. There were no more words spoken as the boy, Sherlock, sat down next to John and opened his book back up to read.

John watched him in awe, rubbing his eyes free of tears as a smile drifted across his face. He gave one last sniffle and turned his attention to the school yard, content to just watch the kids play with his friend reading by his side.


	2. Sherlock: 12 Years Old

**Sherlock: 12 Years Old**

Seven years and he still didn't understand it. Or more accurately, _him._ Over the years, John Watson had done the one thing no other person, adult or child, had been able to do. He had amazed him. Right from that first meeting under the tree, Sherlock had known that John was different than most. At a single glance, you wouldn't have guessed it, Sherlock didn't, easily taking in the closed off and shy appearance of the older boy. But unlike most children, John wouldn't leave him alone. It wasn't like Sherlock was necessarily trying to get rid of John, but most kids got bored and just left him alone, spreading annoyed rumors like the stupid little brats that they were.

No, John wasn't like that at all, he was kind and gentle, quiet and patient, and never seemed to be bothered by Sherlock's oddities, on the contrary, the blonde boy was usually willing the help or participate, if not at least supportive. In his twelve years of experience, Sherlock had never met anyone like him.

They certainly were an odd pair, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. While John was older, age wise by two years, Sherlock was much older in the mind by many more and that along with his height always exceeding John's by at least an inch or two, it always seemed that Sherlock was the older of the two. They were constantly at each other's side while Sherlock got them into trouble and John got them out of it. They would each stand up for each other in their own ways. John, constantly on the defensive, proclaiming how nobody understood and that they had better just shut their mouths. Meanwhile, Sherlock would be full of insults on their stupidity until they ran away crying. John often told him he should stop but he would only respond with a shrug and a note about how they deserved it and would carry on with whatever he was doing.

Sherlock was in the same level of school as John now, having been able to skip a couple years due to his intellectual prowess, but wasn't able to make it much further due to his 'inability to submit to authoritative figures' as John liked to put it, though Sherlock was sure that John was secretly happy that Sherlock wouldn't be jumping ahead.

"BOOOOOOOOORED."

John sighed and set his pencil down on his desk, he turned in his chair and rubbed his eyes.

"Sherlock, you've made that clear already. I'm sorry that you've already finished the homework three hours ago, but I have to study or I'll fail this test tomorrow. Now, if you're just going to keep complaining just go home."

Sherlock gave a disapproving frown. "Just let me take the test for you," he said, completely serious.

John stared at him a moment before turning around and getting back to his studying. "You know we can't do that."

"We could pull it off, the teachers are stupid anyways."

John sighed again and paused his pencil on the paper.

"Sherlock…" he warned, but Sherlock ignored him.

"I can get one of those ear pieces from Mycroft and tell you all the answers or…"

"Sherlock."

The boy fell silent and John turned around in his chair once more. "I need to do this on my own. No cheating. This is the only way I'll learn."

Sherlock frowned, ever since he met John, it seemed the blonde haired boy was constantly studying, researching, doing whatever he could to catch up with Sherlock. Of course the younger boy knew it was rather hopeless when John struggled with what Sherlock considered the most basic of topics. Still, he had admired him for trying.

"Why are you here anyways?" John asked as he crouched back over his book.

"Can't I just hang out with you for no reason?" Sherlock asked, splaying out on John's bed and staring at the ceiling.

"No. Not you anyways."

Sherlock scoffed. "I should be offended by that."

John smiled slightly. "You're never offended by the truth, Sherlock."

It was Sherlock's turn to smile as he turned his head to look over at the boy at the desk. "You make a good point."

John shook his head, glancing over the text book and writing down a few notes before asking again.

"So why are you here?"

Sherlock sighed and turned over onto his stomach. "Mycroft's home."

John made a slight face. He and Mycroft didn't necessarily get along. Neither of them approved of the other, and for very different reasons. John thought Mycroft was a pompus arse who had no business sticking his nose in other peoples affairs. He didn't care if he already graduated Uni years earlier, specializing in politics, he didn't approve of the way Mycroft always looked down on Sherlock in a disapproving manner and always considered Sherlock's intelligence to be considerably lower. Mycroft, on the other hand, was highly disapproving of his brother's relationship with John. In Mycroft's eyes, John was much too low of standards, for some one of Sherlock's intellect and the John was only holding the younger brother back, something that Mycroft was very clear to express to both John and Sherlock every time he had a chance.

"His stupid is rubbing off on you, Sherlock," he would say, whenever the blonde friend wasn't around. It was a line that Sherlock kept secret, knowing that it would set John over the edge if he knew.

"How long?" John asked.

Sherlock could hear the hidden tension in John's voice.

"Just for the week."

There was silence before John spoke again. "You're always welcome to stay here Sherlock. Mum won't mind."

"I know, but Mummy wants me home." Sherlock frowned. He much preferred it at John's house, where it was warm and comforting and always smelled faintly of cinnamon.

John frowned and finally put his pencil down, moving to sit on the bed next to Sherlock. "Sherlock, you know I—"

Sherlock rolled over onto his side so his back was to the older boy. "Shut up John. You don't need to say it."

"Why do you put up with it?" John asked, referring to all the chastising and down grading Sherlock received from not only his brother but his mother and father as well. Sometimes John was afraid that the abuse was physical as well, but Sherlock would never admit, nor allude to it in any way.

_Because they're right. Everything they say, it's all true._ The answer that crosses Sherlock's mind is one he longs to tell John, the only person who would understand. But he wouldn't understand would he? He would deny it, offer some words of comfort, do all he could to convince Sherlock that it wasn't true. But it was true, and Sherlock was very set on that point.

When words end up failing him, Sherlock simply shrugged.

"Sherlock Holmes, that is not an answer," John said firmly.

When the curly haired boy simply shrugged again, John huffed stood from his bed and began gathering his things from the desk into a neat pile, there was no way he was going to get any more studying done tonight.

Sherlock shifted to the edge of the bed as John crawled under the covers on the other side.

"Good night Sherlock."

"Good night John."

The room fell into silence as both boys drifted off to sleep.

The only time John saw Sherlock for the next week was at school. It wasn't unusual, Sherlock usually more or less disappeared whenever Mycroft was home. John had only been over to the Holmes household once when Mycroft was there and he never wanted to go back, he hated it enough that Sherlock was more or less required too.

There were many times that John tried to convince Sherlock to just move in with him and his Mum and sister, but Sherlock always refused with something shining in his eyes that John could never understand or place.

As usual, everything returned to normal once Mycroft headed back to his job with the government. John didn't know exactly what that job was, but he didn't really care either.

A few months passed and John sat at his desk one terribly stormy night, focusing on the math that was due tomorrow. The rain pelted against his window, threatening to crack the class, the wind rattling the frame and helping the rain along. Thunder vibrated the house and lightning lit up the room with blue-white flashes.

Mycroft had yet to visit again and while John was relieved, he knew that the time was drawing closer with every passing day.

Suddenly, there was a loud pounding at the window, a different type of pounding than what the storm was creating and it caused John to jump, dropping his pencil to the desk where it proceeded to roll onto the floor.

"Jesus!" he cured, turning towards the window with a hand over his chest.

John could barely make out the figure standing outside his window and with a frown he cautiously moved forward. Suddenly he recognized the boy with the rain soaked curls that melded with the night sky and the pale skin that dripped with cold rain water.

"Sherlock?!" John cried with shock, moving forward with much quicker steps and quickly opening the window to let the boy in.

Sherlock stumbled in, wearing no shoes or coat, his button up shirt and jeans absolutely soaked through and dripping a puddle onto John's carpet.

"Jesus Sherlock," John said, running to the bathroom and grabbing some towels to wrap around the shivering child. "What are you doing here? Where your shoes, your coat?"

"A-a-at home," Sherlock answered through chattering teeth as he pulled the towel tighter around his shoulders.

"Let's get those wet clothes off you," John said, moving to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, but now that he was closer and over the shock, switching into caring mode, he could see the bruising developing around Sherlock's eye and on the other side of his face across his cheek.

"Sherlock… what happened?" he asked, his hands pausing on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock averted his gaze and in that moment he seemed more like his 12 year old self, younger than John in both years and personality. It was something John never saw and it terrified him.

"Sherlock, what happened?" John asked again, more firmly this time.

The younger boy fidgeted for a minute, looking like he might just run away before he swallowed and spoke three words that would haunt John for years.

"He hit me."

John froze, but didn't say anything. A rare anger boiled inside him as he forced himself to move and get the cold, wet shirt off of his friend. His lips pursed as he noticed a dark bruise forming on the left side of the boy's ribcage.

Sherlock shrugged the shirt to the floor and began working out of his pants while John gently dried his hair.

They quickly got the dark haired boy changed into a set of John's PJs and Sherlock immediately crawled into bed, still shaking, though now John wasn't sure whether it was because he was still cold, or because of the shock of the experience.

Sherlock slid his legs under the blankets and John sat down beside him and rubbed his back while they both pulled their knees up to their chests.

"He's… he's never hit me before," Sherlock said softly, his voice inches from cracking. When John didn't speak, he turned towards the blonde. "Do you hate me John?"

John blinked, not expecting the question. "Of course not Sherlock, you're my best friend. I could never hate you," he answered gently. "You can get on people's nerves and you have a little trouble with points of social ettiquete but you're the smartest most brilliant person I know."

Sherlock stared at him with a look mixed with gratefulness, pain and relief. And for the first time, John saw his friend cry.

The light trickle of tears that trailed down his friend's cheek was one of the most painful things John had ever seen and after a moment of hesitation, John slipped from the bed and flipped of his desk lamp, math would have to wait. Crawling back into bed, he laid down facing Sherlock as the other boy sniffed and laid down facing the wall, his back to his friend.

"Come 'ere," John muttered, wrapping his arm around his friends waist and pulling him tight against his chest.

Sherlock tensed a moment, but then slowly relaxed as John nuzzled his face into the black mass of curls.

"It's alright Sherlock, I'm here. It's going to be alright. I'll always be here to protect you no matter what."

Sherlock listened to the words and let them play repeatedly until he drifted to sleep and he knew that as long as John was by his side, the words would always be true. He would be alright

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**Well, there you have it, this chapter was a lot angstier than I initially intended the story to ever be, but what can you do? This is what happens when I let the story take me where it will. Please please tell what you think. And once again I apologize for any of my americanness that popped up. Thank you so much for reading! Look forward to chapter three coming soon!  
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	3. Sherlock: 15 years Old

**Sherlock: 15 Years Old**

Deep, yet boyish laughter caused blue-grey eyes to look up from their book and across the table to a certain blonde from which the laugh had originated. He briefly wondered what had caused the small outburst until the young boy let his eyes travel the table and noticed that a small group had gathered. He recognized the group, but Sherlock was unaware of when they had actually arrived.

This group of people that had gathered at the lunch table were what John liked to consider their friends. Sherlock on the other hand placed them into three distinct categories of which he occasionally reminded John. The first group had only one person and one person alone. That person was John Watson, his one and only true friend. It was something he would never admit to Mycroft, but had been able to come to terms with over his years with the blue eyed, blonde haired boy.

The second group was what Sherlock liked to call his 'half-friends'. John constantly insisted that there was no such thing and no such term but Sherlock would insist. They were the people that he trusted but didn't consider friends.

"They're not friends, but they're not, not friends," Sherlock would explain as if it made total sense. "Therefore that would most logically make them half-friends."

This group consisted of three people. The sandy haired girl who sat next to John named Molly Hooper. She was a sweet girl and rather shy and innocent, about the same age as Sherlock. Lestrade, whose first name Sherlock seemed to always forget and get wrong, he was bold and determined, but still loyal to the core, though a touch sentimental. The third person barely fit in the group as Mike Stamford was more of John's friend and even then they didn't hang out much, but Sherlock supposed that if John liked the man as well as he did, Sherlock could count him in the half-friend category for John's sake if nothing else. Mike was nice enough at least, good humored and friendly, Sherlock guessed that he liked him alright.

The third group was the people Sherlock dealt with but didn't consider friends. Sally Donovan was brilliant, top of her class, but she was also cocky and snide, a queen bee that never liked Sherlock from the start. She got along alright with John but she never approved of Sherlock or his friendship with John. Philip Anderson on the other hand could have easily been placed in the half-friend category if it wasn't for his unfaltering loyalty to Sally. Philip had always been an underdog for as long as Sherlock had known, and when someone like Sally showed interest, he latched on, and followed her every step for fear of becoming an outcast worse than what he was before. Philip wasn't nearly as smart as Sally, but his snide comments were just as frequent. Sensitive and loyal, the boy had a good heart and fierce determination, as well as a hidden admiration for Sherlock's brilliance which is why Sherlock would have thought better of him in different circumstances.

It only took Sherlock a few seconds to deduce that it was Molly who had made John laugh and with that mystery solved, he returned to his book.

"You're coming to the dance tonight, right Sherlock?" Molly asked, distracting the boy once again from his chosen literature.

He glanced up briefly but then answered with his eyes trained on the page.

"I had no such intentions."

"Come on Sherlock, it'll be fun!" Mike said from Molly's right.

"You don't have to worry about a date, if that's what's bothering you," Lestrade piped in, nudging Sherlock from where he sat to the young boy's left.

"That's right, none of us have dates. We're just going as a night out with friends, say you will Sherlock," John said, his eyes hopeful as Sherlock looked up to meet them.

He glanced around the table, everyone waiting for his answer as they looked at him. After a moment he sighed and closed his book. "Fine," he answered.

John sat back looking pleased. "Oh and Sherlock. No books or anything… weird… yeah?" John asked, leaning across the table to speak in a hushed tone.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes in response.

"Hello."

A sweet and confident voice had everyone looking to the end of the table. John quickly had everyone scooting down so that the short haired blonde girl could sit next to him.

"Hey everyone, this is Mary, I hope you don't mind if she joins us tonight, she's fairly new so I invited her along," John said.

Everybody shook her heads with lack of protest.

Sherlock didn't move or say anything at all, simply flicking her eyes over her and figuring out all he could. Only child, family troubles, strong and independent, caring. Has a thing for John.

The last one caught him off guard, but it was clear as day. And for some reason it made him uncomfortable.

_They're sitting too close._ He thought. Then he harshly reminded himself that it shouldn't matter, that it _didn't _matter. John was free to do his own thing, even if it didn't involve one Sherlock Holmes.

When the bell rang for class, Sherlock was the first to leave the table, feeling oddly tight in the stomach.

"Sherlock!"

The ebony haired boy turned around to see Molly running to catch up with him. He didn't say anything as she stopped next to him and looked at him with nervous features.

"Um… about the dance tonight… I… I know that you're interested in someone else, but…. But I was wondering if you could spare me just one dance?" she asked, looking up at him with hopeful eyes mixed with the fear of rejection.

He had known that Molly had a crush on him ever since she joined their little group, and he didn't mind, seeing as she was rather subtle about it. It was actually quite sweet and Sherlock felt a little bad he couldn't return the affections. He would have easily agreed, but he was caught up on a particular part of her statement.

"What do you mean 'interested in someone else?'" he asked, thoroughly perplexed. Sherlock Holmes didn't show interest in people, well, he did, but not in the way Molly was speaking of here. Sherlock didn't do sentiment, and really, he cared as little as possible.

She frowned. "You mean you're not interested in John? I just thought because of the way you looked when Mary sat down and the way you act around him in general…"

Sherlock stopped listening as soon as she mentioned John. The moment the name passed her lips he realized that there was an exception to the rules. A certain blonde haired, blue eyed, exception. An exception he exclusively called his friend.

_But he's more than that isn't he? At least you want him to be._ Sherlock shook his head. No, he couldn't get attached. That was the rule. The main rule, the most important rule. Don't. Get. Attached.

"Sherlock?"

The boy was pulled back from his thoughts as his eyes fell on Molly's confused features.

"Mmm?"

"You were shaking your head and muttering to yourself, is everything alright?"

He let out a small breath. "Yeah, fine, and Molly, I would love to dance with you tonight."

A smile spread across her face and she leaned up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you Sherlock Holmes," she said before heading off to class, a little lighter in her step.

Sherlock was more grateful than ever before that Mycroft wasn't home that night as he pulled out his nice suit and a purple tie. He let it hang on the closet door as he sat in his chair and stared at it.

Feelings for John Watson? Impossible. _But not improbable, _he unwillingly reminded himself. He rubbed at his temples as he thought back over the ten years he had known John. All the signs were there, the ones Molly had mentioned and more. It only made sense, once he thought about it, that he should develop feelings for John. He had been his closest and oldest friend. He showed concern for Sherlock in a way no one else would and he was always by his side, never once having let Sherlock down, no matter how selfish or crazy the younger boy was being. He knew the reason he didn't realize this earlier. Denial, plain and simple. Sherlock was unaware that he could be in denial about anything, but there it was.

_Don't get attached._

Sherlock could practically hear the words as if Mycroft was standing in the room with him now.

"Too late for that now, isn't it?" he said aloud with a sad and weary chuckle. It had been brought to the surface with the help of a certain sandy haired girl and there was nothing he could do about it other than shove the feelings back down and hope they didn't show.

He pushed from the chair and stepped over to his suit. He wasn't going to let trivial feelings for his best friend ruin their relationship. The last thing he could afford to do now, the last thing he wanted to do, was lose John Watson.

The room that had been cleared out for the dance was already crowded and the air already thick. Bodies moved to the beat of the music the played a touch too loud for Sherlock's taste. He stood on the edge, searching for his friends, but as he noticed Molly and Mike standing by the punch, Sally and Philip dancing towards the edge of the dance floor and Lestrade chatting up some girl on a far wall, he realized that he was more precisely looking for one person in particular.

"Sherlock!"

The boy barely heard his name over the music as he turned to find John walking towards him, his arm around Mary's waist. He ignored the clenching in his chest as he smiled at them. Mary wore a slender gold dress that flattered every feature, and while John wore a simple suit with a navy blue bow tie, Sherlock briefly allowed himself to think that he looked much more dashing.

"Come dance with us!" Mary urged, holding out her hand. When Sherlock didn't move, she grabbed his hand and pulled him out on to the dance floor. Though not as energetic as the rest of the dancers, Sherlock did make attempts to seem like he was enjoying himself. Really, he didn't mind dancing, actually, he particularly enjoyed it, but he was more for slow ballroom style, this random movement of limbs and body parts made him slightly uncomfortable.

When the song finally switched to a slower one, John immediately pulled Mary close—_too close_—and whisked her gracefully around the room. Taking a deep breath to calm whatever it was that had his stomach in knots and his chest in a tight band, he seeked out Molly. Finding her standing by the door in her knee length, strapless blue dress, he tapped her on the shoulder and held out his hand for hers.

Even in the dim, swirling colored lights the lit up the room, Sherlock could see the blush that lit up her cheeks and the way her mouth turned up and her shoulders shook in a nervous giggle.

"I believe I promised you a dance?" he asked.

"Yes, yes you did," she said, taking his hand and smiling at the group of girls she had been chatting with. They all gave her half-hearted smiles as if they couldn't understand why she would be so excited to dance with Sherlock Holmes.

Molly wasn't the most graceful of dancers, but with a little guidance, she had stopped stumbling by the first chorus.

"You know, you could be an excellent dancer if you had a few lessons, did you ever consider it?" he asked in her ear.

She giggled and shook her head. "Not much interested in that sort of thing."

"Oh? What are you interested in then?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Well I have plans to go into the medical field," she answered.

He gave her a smile. "I'm sure you'll be brilliant."

She gave a bright smile, knowing that that meant a lot, coming from him. The song ended and they dropped their hands back to their side.

"Would you like to go get a drink?" he asked.

Molly nodded. "I'm parched."

He gave her a light grin and led her over to the table where they were stopped by Lestrade.  
"I wouldn't drink the punch, someone spiked it," he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, must everyone here be so immature?" he grumbled.

Lestrade shook his head. "Philip has already had one too many if you ask me," he said.

Sherlock shook his head as well in return. "Well I'm not going to take care of him. Come Molly, I'll buy you a water from the machine." She started to protest but he was already dragging her into the hall.

They sat in silence a couple minutes later as Molly sipped at her water bottle and Sherlock watched the movement of bodies in the other room.

"Sherlock, it was really nice of you to dance with me, thank you," she said softly. "And to get me the water as well."

He waved her off, his eyes still trained to a certain duo on the dance floor.

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

Sherlock drew his attention away from the gyrating bodies to look at her. "What?"

"When the person you like likes someone else." He opened his mouth to say something but she continued without noticing. "But sometimes though, it's best to let them just be happy, no matter how much it hurts." She leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, letting her lips linger for a second longer than necessary. "I hope you get him before it's too late Sherlock. I hope you end up happy." She gave him a sad smile and walked back out onto the dance floor, leaving Sherlock feeling a mix of emotions he couldn't understand.

But there was one thing he did understand as he watched a dashing young man pull close a girl clad in gold, something Molly in all her selfless brilliance had failed to realize.

It was already too late.

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**Hello Everyone, Sophia here. I apologize for the mild feels (not really) and that this took me a little bit longer to get out than planned. I pretty much have chapter four written in my head, so it should be up in the next couple of days.  
**

**As always, please review and tell me what you think! Thank you so much for reading!**


	4. John:19 Years OldSherlock:17 Years Old

**John: 19 Years Old**

This day had to be perfect.

They had been dating for two years and John knew he was ready.

Browsing the florist shop, he had trouble deciding between the typical roses or something more like lilies. In the end he picked lilies, believing they fit better. Not as romantic and a surprisingly bold and independent flower.

Smiling, he paid for the flowers and slid the change into his pocket. They were to meet at the restaurant at seven which meant he still had fifteen minutes to get there. Jogging across the street he hailed a taxi and gave the address once he was in.

Setting the flowers aside, he fished the small velvet box from his jacket pocket. He opened it slowly to reveal a simple gold plated band with a single diamond. It was simple, but all he could afford after saving up for months to be able to pay for it, though he was sure that she would appreciate it all the same. Really, if he had gotten something from the coin machine he was sure she would have taken it, of course this would have come with endless teasing and eventual demands for a real ring, but she would have taken it all the same. John smiled at the thought and closed the box. That was why he loved her.

Pulling up in front of the restaurant, he checked himself in the large window of the closed shop next door. Hair? No strays, he was good there. Suit? No wrinkles, good. Nothing in his teeth, his breath smelled fine far as he could tell, the flowers were arranged in a perfect bouquet, his shoes shined as much as they had that morning, at least close to it, and the ring was in his pocket. Checklist done and everything in order, John headed inside with an excited grin and a racing heart.

"Reservation for John Watson for 7?" he asked the hostess at the check in counter. She gave him a pleased smile and nodded after checking her list.

"Right this way Mr. Watson," she said stepping out from behind the counter to lead him towards the back of the dimly lit restaurant.

The minute he saw her, he had to pause and take her in. She looked absolutely exquisite. Her hair now reached her shoulders, compared to the extremely short cut it was at when they first got together, and a one shoulder styled dress slid down her form to her ankles in red silken waves. Tight enough to show off her body, but still loose enough to be flattering. She wore very little make-up, which was how he preferred it, and low heeled silver sandals. She smiled brightly at him as he approached the table.

"Mary," he said with tender love in his tone as he handed her the flowers and leaned down and gave her a kiss.

He didn't catch her hesitation.

He pulled out his chair and sat across from her at the small table before opening up the menu and looked over it. Her sigh had him looking up as she closed her own menu and placed it to the side.

"Look, John, there's something we need to talk about," she said.

John smiled lightly. "I have something I need to talk about with you as well."

She fought a frown as he folded up his own menu and set it aside.

"I think it would be best if I go first," she said slowly carefully.

His smile finally faltered, he didn't like her tone or that nervous look in her eye.

"Go on Mary, what is it?"

She took a deep breath before looking at him straight in the eyes.

"I think it would be best if we didn't do this anymore."

He froze and every feature in his body sagged. He swallowed and his eyes filled with such, hurt, disbelief and sadness that it was worse than the occurrence of tears. His hands fell to his lap as he clenched them into fists. Of all the nights! He was cracked, but not shattered, not yet. Anger took over, frustration coursed through him as he pursed his lips and took a deep breath.

"Why?" he asked.

"Oh John, if I told you, you wouldn't understand. Just please know this is for the best. I love you, I always will, but you deserve to be happy." Her voice was full of apology and pain and sorrow. She hated doing this to him, but he could see it in her eyes that she believed this was right.

How could she do this to him? He wanted to scream it across the whole restaurant. How could she possibly know what was right for him, what he would understand, what could make him happy? She was all of that and more and yet she was leaving him. Leaving him the same night he was going to ask her to be his wife.

He stood abruptly and she did the same, only more slowly. She opened her mouth to apologize but he wouldn't even look at her. Five minutes, he had gone from the most happiest and excited he had ever been to the angriest.

"Please don't ever talk to me. Not until you can say something that would make up for all of this," he said. He wanted to pull the ring out of his pocket. He wanted to throw it at her, slam it down on the table, anything to prove to her what she had done to him, the humiliation, the _pain_ she had caused him. But with his hand in his pocket he hesitated. No, she didn't deserve that. Let this heartbroken and shatter look on his face be enough. She didn't deserve the ring.

He stomped out of the restaurant and went to the only place he could think of. His safe haven. The place he always went when he was upset in any way.

Climbing from the tree branch through the window Sherlock always kept unlocked, the curly haired boy looked up from his book from where he sat on the bed. He frowned, mild concern crossing his features.

"John, what is—"

One sniff was all it took and Sherlock clearly deduced what happened. John's hand opened and Sherlock was off the bed and pulling John into his arms by the time the velvet box hit the floor.

Sherlock guided him to the bed and laid him down so they were facing each other. John effectively burst into heart wrenching sobs.

Sherlock stayed with John until the older boy fell asleep, neither of them saying a word as Sherlock rubbed John's back in slow circles. John slept peacefully reminded that he always had Sherlock, and as long as he was there, even the worst things would eventually be okay.

**Sherlock: 17 Year Old**

Once again, Sherlock Holmes was finding that he didn't understand.

Two years ago he had taken Molly's advice. _"Sometimes though, it's best to let them just be happy, no matter how much it hurts." _And _God _did it hurt. For two years Sherlock had let himself be distanced from John. He remained a friend, but no more. He avoided intervening and even kept himself from keeping detailed track of the relationship, as he was tempted to do so many times. John didn't seem to notice and while he was always happy to have Sherlock around, it didn't occur much.

As they entered Uni, Sherlock and John remained close friends, but didn't see as much of each other as they used to. John grew closer and closer to Mary until finally he declared that he was going to propose.

If he was being completely honest, Sherlock was shocked. In a way, he had seen this coming, but at the same time, he hadn't expected it to be so soon. He hadn't wanted it to ever happen. But a few weeks later he was at the jewelers, helping his best friend pick out a ring.

When John crawled through his window looking about ready to break into a thousand pieces, Sherlock didn't understand. What had gone wrong? His concern for his friend had him unable to deduce anything beyond the simple blatant truth: _She rejected him._ He wasn't sure whether he should be relieved or angry or concerned. In the end, he chose concerned, at least for the time being as he silently let John cry himself to sleep on his bed. The heartbreak in his eyes and the pain in his sobs had Sherlock's chest tightening in a thousand vises, but the peace that crossed John's features when he finally fell asleep erased all that and Sherlock had no problem watching over him for the rest of the night.

For the next few months, Sherlock watched as John threw himself into his studies. He struggled, both academically and financially, even with Sherlock's help. He wouldn't accept money, taking up a job at a nearby convenience store, but he was grateful for the help with the homework. Sherlock allowed himself to get close again, staying by John's, just as they were growing up, as the end of their second year of Uni rolled into sight.

There was never any sign of Mary.

Occasionally Sherlock would see her in the halls or out on the grounds, but that was it, nothing more than fleeting glimpses.

After several months he still couldn't figure it out. He had done with Molly said, let John be happy despite his own pain. As far as he could tell, for the past two years, Mary did that, she made John happy in a way Sherlock wanted to, but never could. So why then, did John end up crying in his bed at the end?

Walking back to his dorm from class one day he caught of sight of Mary heading the other direction and while he promised himself he wouldn't, the need for answers was too great and he found himself stopping her with a call of her name.

She paused and slowly turned as he ran to catch up with her.

"Sherlock," she said in surprise before slowly smiling at him. "How are you?"

"Fine," he said bluntly, not in the mood for idle chit-chat. "Why did you do it Mary?"

"What? I'm afraid I don't—"

"You know well what I mean. John. John Watson. Our friend. You loved him didn't you?" He asked.

She pursed her lips and sighed. "Yes. I did."

"And he loved you." It was a fact not a question. "You made each other happy."

She gave a slow nod. "Yes we did, very happy."

"Then why did you do it?"

There was a long moment of silence between them as the both stared each other down. Sherlock was determined for answers, but he couldn't find them in her eyes, only a softness that he couldn't understand.

"You."

He blinked. "What?"

"I did it because of you."

He took a step back. He didn't understand and his face showed it.

"What do you mean?"

She sighed, gnawing lightly at her lip as she looked out the window to her left. "It was always about you Sherlock Holmes, and it took me two years to realize that it always would be, no matter who came into his life, no matter what they did to make him look the other way."

"He was going to propose," he said.

She frowned and turned her head to look at him again. "I know. That's why I had to end it then. Before it got too far."

"Then why—"

"You have to understand something Sherlock. Everybody realizes how much you love John Watson, but nobody quite realized how much John Watson loves you. Nobody except for me."

He slowly let that sink in, shock and realization coursed through him and all he was able to do was choke out a single, "But" before she held up her finger.

"Our one year anniversary, he canceled because you were sick and he had to make sure you were doing what you needed to get better. Several dates he canceled or left early because of a text from you. That's only a couple of examples. I never protested or said anything because I knew you two were close and he was always so sweet and apologetic and always tried to make it up to me. He never realized what he was doing. I never really had him Sherlock. He was always yours, I was foolish to think otherwise." She gave him a sad smile. "I knew that if I tried to explain that to him that night, he would deny it, he wouldn't understand. I'm no longer a part of his life any more, but I hope that maybe, one day, you can explain it to him." Her smile softened as she stepped forward. "I hope you end up happy Sherlock Holmes. You and John."

Sherlock blinked at the sense of déjà vu as the memory of the dance came flooding back to him as Mary's lips gently touched his cheek. She stepped back and turned and as she walked away he called after her.

He wanted to wish her happiness as well, to hope for her to find another man, but what came out instead wasn't filled said as a snide stab, or as a tease that he had John as he didn't. No, it was said as a true admiration to her strength.

"It takes a strong woman to let go of what she can't have."

She paused and looked over her shoulder and with one last smile, Mary Morstan disappeared.

Sherlock all but ran home. For the past few months, John had been spending most of his time in Sherlock's room and so, just as Sherlock had hoped, John was sitting at his desk, his brow furrowed over an opened text book.

Sherlock stopped in the door way, breathing heavily as he looked at John, a single thought pushed him forward. Hesitation glued him to the floor.

John looked up. "What's up with you? Did you run here or something?"

The younger man didn't say a word only stepped forward in long hurried steps.

Concern crossed John's features as he pushed back his chair and stood.

"Sherlock, what—"

He never finished the question as Sherlock's hand slid into place on either side of his face and lips collided.

Then, something happened that Sherlock didn't expect. In that moment, in that sweet, beautiful, unbelievable moment. With the air tinted with longing and lips pressed against each other in perfect fit. With racing hearts and throbbing pulses. With shock disappearing into oblivion, John kissed back.

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**Hello again, thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! There is more soon to come I promise, though I should warn that the next chapter won't be as... nice, much more angsty. But that's the fun of it, eh? Anyways, Please let me know what you thought! I love all of you who read as well as review and thank you to all who do both as well as those who follow and favorite. As you know, it's you who keep this going! See you next time! *waves* **


	5. John: 20 Years Old

**John: 20 Years Old**

He couldn't believe that it had been nearly a year since that strange day. John remembered it clearly. Sherlock came running in, his face flushed, panting slightly as he hesitated at the doorway. John was worried by the odd look on his friend's face. Something that was along the lines of awe, disbelief and confusion, was the best he could tell. He stood to ask what was wrong and the next thing he knew, his face was cradled in Sherlock's hands and his lips were pressed against that of the taller man. The kiss only lasted seconds and there was no good way of describing it. It was questioning and demanding, hesitant yet bold, full of lust, but gentle and romantic. It was memorable. It only lasted seconds but not for one of those did John hesitate to kiss back or struggle in any way.

Even now, almost a year later, he couldn't quite explain why. He never considered himself to be gay in any way and he considered Sherlock a close, dear friend and no more. But when Sherlock's lips met his own, something fell into place, it felt comforting and right and half a second in he knew he didn't _want _to end it. John knew it was cheesy, but that was the best way for him to describe it.

After The Kiss, John sat Sherlock down because it was very clear that they needed to talk. They set perimeters and things had been going good since that day. Slow, but good. They had yet to kiss again and while John knew it was driving Sherlock mad, he appreciated the man's patience and understanding. It had taken John months to officially consider Sherlock his boyfriend, but John couldn't be proud of how Sherlock stuck with it.

But now it had been a year, and while John wanted to move onto the next step and finally get that second kiss in, he always found himself backing out at the last minute, and ended up with nothing more than lips to cheeks.

Their second year of Uni had passed and while he was happy to take a break from school and exams, John couldn't relax. There was something weighing on him and he had to tell Sherlock before the younger man found out for himself, which he would, whether it was the simple way, through deduction, or the hard way.

John had been trying to bring the subject up for weeks, but never could. He planned millions of speeches, soothing words and explanations, but when the time came, not a single word passed his lips and all plans to tell his boyfriend vanished from his mind.

But now the time was drawing closer and Sherlock could sense John's tension, even if he had yet to ask the older man about it. He had to tell him soon, he knew, but it made it so hard when all he could imagine was the different levels of how upset Sherlock would be at the news.

Sitting at a local café on a warm afternoon was a common weekend activity for John and Sherlock, and this weekend was no different, but there was an unusual tension between them, one that didn't occur often in their relationship. They were usually comfortable with the silence, but they were both waiting. Sherlock, for John to speak, John, to be able to build up the courage to do so.

"Sherlock, there is something we need to talk about, well, more like something I need to tell you," he said carefully, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

He could feel Sherlock's steady eyes on him and John concentrates on his cup.

_He knows._

John takes a deep breath, forcing the words from his head. "I…. I've join the army." He pushes the words out quickly, getting rid of them before he can try and take them back.

He hesitates before he looks up to see Sherlock's reaction, fearing the worst. And there is nothing.

Sherlock's face is blank and that terrifies John the most, because he knows that Sherlock is shutting down, refusing to process the information.

He knows that his Sherlock is breaking.

"In a couple weeks, I suppose?" he finally asked. His voice was slower than John has ever heard it before and he feels iron bands start to wind their way around his heart.

John only nods.

There is a never ending moment of tense silence between them and finally, Sherlock pushes back his chair.

"I'll be home late," he states, then leaves the café without another word or glance John's way.

John stays at the table for several moments afterwards, staring into his hardly touched tea with hands clenched around the mug to keep from shaking. Finally, he stands, placing some money down on the table, he heads back home to wait for Sherlock.

When Sherlock finally came in through the door, it was nearly two in the morning. The room was dim with nothing more than the bedside lamp providing light and while John was clearly wide away, sitting up as Sherlock entered, the younger man didn't say anything as he showered and changed into his night clothes.

"Sherlock…" John said softly as the curly haired man pretended to look for a book in their minimal selection.

There came a soft sigh that was defening in the stark silence of the room and pausing a moment, Sherlock slowly turned around and John could instantly tell that he was hurt.

"I could help you know."

John shook his head. "If I want to become a doctor, it has to be on my own. I can't have your help Sherlock, otherwise, it just isn't…right, it isn't the same."

"I don't understand." Sherlock slowly moved to sit beside John on the bed.

"I know you don't and it's not something I can explain." John wrapped an arm around him and Sherlock instantly snuggled into his favorite position, tucked under John's arm and cuddled up to his side.

"I'll be doing good Sherlock," he said in an almost pleading tone.

"You'll be breaking your promise."

There was a tense silence as John let that sink in. It never occurred to him that Sherlock would think that way. He never realized Sherlock cared or even remembered the promise John made to him that night Sherlock came running to his house as shelter from his abusive father.

_"It's alright Sherlock, I'm here. It's going to be alright. I'll always be here to protect you no matter what."_

He had promised to always be there for Sherlock and now he was breaking that promise. John wasn't sure if the iron band around his heart could tighten any further.

"I'll only be gone a year for training," John said.

"Then four years of service," Sherlock added in a displeased tone.

"But who knows what will happen then, we'll get through training and then we'll make plans for you to stay close, wherever they ship me."

Sherlock was silent and John let his hand run up and down his back soothingly. He hated leaving Sherlock, but at this point, he had made his decision and there was no going back.

The signal sounded and John stood from the bench. "This is me," he said. Obviously they both knew that it was his train, but John needed to say something to keep the air light, to keep this departure as casual as possible before they both broke down.

Sherlock stood with him, his hand tightly gripping John's. He had been holding it since they got dressed that morning, only letting go when absolutely necessary. He hadn't said a word either, absolutely silent since they had gotten up. He reminded him of the bruised and battered boy he knew back in the early years of their friendship. The tiny boy with a mess of black curls who would come in with his knees and elbows scraped, a cut lip and a bruised cheek. Who would stare at his feet wordlessly as John walked him to the nurses office. Sherlock was much like that little boy now, only the cuts and bruises we're visible this time.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he said as the train slowed to a stop.

Sherlock watched it a moment before looking at John.

"I don't want you to go," he said, his voice fragile as it echoed the thoughts in John's head.

John gave his hand a squeeze. "Only a year. We can handle it. I'll write you like I promised and I'll be back before you know it." He tried to give a smile, but it felt weak and unconvincing.

The doors opened and people started filing onto the cars.

"I better go," John said, taking a step away. Suddenly, it seemed impossible to move. How easy would it be for him to just stand here, holding Sherlock's hand as they watched the train leave the station? Too easy at this point, far too easy, dangerously so.

He took a deep breath and stepped back forward again, leaning in and brushing his lips against Sherlock's. It was nothing more than that, just a brush, a brief flutter of lips, but it had the same effect as before, the same whirl wind of emotions and heat.

"Good bye."

John pulled away and moments later was watching Sherlock disappear from the train's window.

"Please be okay."

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**Hello everyone, this chapter turned out not to be as horribly heart breaking as I had planned but that's only because it kept changing as I was writing and realizing that what I thought was going to happen was actually going to happen in future chapters, so here you go, mild heartbreak vs. devestating sadness.  
**

**As always, your comments are greatly appreciated. Chapter 6 will be up in the next couple hours simply because I want to get it out and I plan on it being short. Don't worry, if everything goes according to plan, chapter 7 will be longer. Thank you for sticking with me and for all the lovely favorites, follows and reviews! I grant you each with a personal hug and a cookie because you're all lovely. See you soon!**


	6. John: 21 Years Old

**Sherlock: 19 Years Old**

Sherlock could hardly contain himself and he couldn't help but think, with some amusement, that if he were there, Mycroft would be appalled, if not ashamed by the way Sherlock was barely keeping it together. The epitome of sophistication and control, he would not have been able to stand the way his younger brother paced and rocked on his feet, looking eagerly at the doors of every train that pulled up, even when he knew that it wasn't the right one.

But now, now any of them could be the right one. The train was already behind schedule. Behind by 2 minutes, 47 seconds to be exact.

_48, 49, 50, 51…._

Sherlock stopped counting as another train pulled into the station. He stopped his pacing and tried, in vain, not to get too excited when the doors slid open in their agonizingly slow manner. He glanced over each face until finally, _finally, _ his eyes fell on the one face he had been searching for for the past three hours.

He didn't call his name, didn't wave to get his attention. He simply rushed forward, wrapped his arms around the man and kissed him with a rough, mind blowing kiss.

John staggered backwards at the impact, dropping his bags as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and kissed him back with just as much fervor, ignoring the complaints of those still getting off the train.

"Well hello to you too," John said, feeling giddy after the kiss.

Sherlock chuckled. "I missed you," he said.

"Well I'm home now."

"Right? How long are you back for anyways, when they shipping you off?" Sherlock asked casually, picking up one of John's bags while the blonde picked up the other.

"You hungry? I haven't eaten since six and I'm starving. How about we go get some lunch?" John said.

Sherlock didn't mind the subject change, he understood John's implication. This was a time to appreciate that he was home, not think about when he was leaving. Though they would have to talk about it eventually if they were going to make arrangements for Sherlock to move.

They had lunch at their old weekend café as they caught up on what they hadn't been able to inform each other in their phone calls and letters. All talk of deployment was avoided.

With lunch finished they headed to the apartment on Baker Street Sherlock had moved into shortly after John left for training, and Sherlock proudly showed him around, despite the mess.

"This is amazing Sherlock! And you got a place like this for cheap?" he asked.

"One of my freelance cases, made really good friends with the landlady. I've told her all about you so don't freak out if she's… overly friendly," he said.

John chuckled and turned around, taking in the small flat where Sherlock had set up residence.

"There's a spare bedroom upstairs if you need it," Sherlock said, though his tone implied that he hoped John wouldn't.

John smiled and grabbed Sherlock by the hips, pulling him close. "You're amazing, you know that?"

The younger man wasn't quite sure what he had done to deserve the random compliment but wasn't given much time to think about it as dry lips once again made contact with his own and the only thought that was allowed to cross his mind was the that he wouldn't mind if this went on for the rest of his life.

**John: 21 Years Old**

"John."

John looked up from his computer, knowing well what Sherlock's serious tone implied.

"It's been five days John. You can't put it off anymore, I'm getting worried." Sherlock's tone shifted from serious to concerned and pleading as he spoke.

John sighed. Sherlock was right, there was no more time, he had to tell him. He only put it off for as long as he had because he knew it would upset Sherlock and ruin what little time they had together.

"I know," he said, still hesitating, still trying to find any other way out of this.

Sherlock took a firm and determined seat next to him, a frown creasing his features as John ran a nervous hand through his hair, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"Well? Where are they sending you?" he asked.

John's hand curled into a fist on his lap as he closed his laptop.

"Afghanistan," he said, his other hand clenched into a fist on his other leg as he stared at the floor between his feet.

It was absolutely silent, not even their breathing could be heard and John began to worry if Sherlock was breathing at all.

Looking up, he took in a slightly inhale of breath. Etched across Sherlock's face was one, singular emotion.

Fear.

"When?" he choked out, trying to stay calm.

"Soon," John said, reaching out for a hand.

Sherlock pulled away, his thin frame starting to quiver.

"How soon?" A little louder this time.

"Sherlock I-"

"How soon?!" He was screaming now.

Sherlock's breaths came in short pants as he stood, looming over John. Fear in his eyes and in every feature of his body.

"How soon?" he whispered again but looking into John's eyes, he knew the answer, he didn't want it to be there, he didn't want it to be true. He just wanted to go back to before, when he was naive enough to believe that John would be by his side forever.

John held his eyes, having no words to apologize or make this better. He took a deep breath and spoke the answer that they both knew but didn't want to believe.

"Tomorrow."

It was early and the train station was cold and damp, but not nearly as crowded as usual. John found himself constantly looking over his shoulder, hoping he would come, hoping he would change his mind.

Sherlock was inconsolable. No amount of promises or kisses or reassurances could sooth the silence that had set in and he hadn't moved from bed for the rest of the day. Even when John left this morning, Sherlock laid on his side on the couch, his eyes blank as John gathered up his things. He didn't say a word as John kissed him goodbye or when John vocalized that he wished he would come, or at least say something.

As the train pulled into the station, there was still no sign of the tousled haired man he had come to care for so deeply and as he stepped onto the train he knew that that was it, he wasn't going to show.

He had officially broken Sherlock Holmes.

As the train began to move moments later, John watched as once again the station disappeared, but this time without final glance of the one he wanted to be there the most, and he couldn't help but hope with all the heart he had that this, in many ways, wasn't the end.

**Sherlock: 19 Years Old**

Long after John left the flat, Sherlock continued to stare at the door.

He couldn't leave, he couldn't watch John disappear again. All he could do was sit there and watch the door where he last saw the only man he ever loved and know that at least from here he could do something he wouldn't have been able to do if he had gone to the station. From that very spot on the couch, with clear site of the door, Sherlock could believe. That door opened several times a day as people came and went and watching John leave through that door was the only way Sherlock could hold onto his hope that one day his soldier would come back again.

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**Well, there you go guys, a few hours later just as I promised. So it wasn't as short as I expected it to be, but it still came up pretty fast. I hope you all enjoyed it, please please tell me what you think. I love hearing from you.  
**

**Also, I don't know when the next chapter will be up because I don't have a solid idea for waht's going to happen. I know it's going to be a mix of John and Sherlock and I'm expecting it to be a longer chapter, but that's all I've got so far.**

**Anyways, thank you all for reading! I hope I see you soon!**


	7. Sherlock: 20 Years Old

**Trigger Warning: Drug References (Just to be safe)**

* * *

**Sherlock: 20 Years Old**

_Dear Sherlock,_

_ Things are getting crazy over here. __I've seen so much. Things you don't ever want to see. I may not be the one running out in the fields, guns blazing, but I get to sit here with all the results. The blood on my hands and the cries in my ears,__ but I'm managing. I know I've said this before, but it's harder than I imagined. My comrades are supportive and I've kept strong. It may be tough, but I have to persevere, for all these soldiers fighting this awful war. _

_ The quiet nights are growing far and few between, I miss our quiet weekends at the café. I'm sorry I haven't called, we've lost two doctors in the field this month and another was shipped off to a different station. I promise to keep writing. I'm okay Sherlock, I really am. Almost a year now, yeah? We've made it this far, we can make it another three. Please wait for me Sherlock. _

_ I miss you._

_ I love you._

_ I promise to be back by your side soon and then everything will be alright._

_ All my love,_

_ John_

The letter was signed with a delicate flourish that belonged only to John. It was the anniversary of John's departure for Afghanistan. Not a anniversary you would want to celebrate, but Sherlock wasn't celebrating. Far from it, while the few letters that sat before him reminded him that John was indeed alive and okay, they were also the painful reminder that he wasn't here, by Sherlock's side, keeping the promise that he wrote at the end of each letter. There were eight in total and Sherlock had spent the day reading through them one by one, over and over until the room grew dark and he had to move to turn on the light. The most recent letter had come in only days earlier, but Sherlock had waited until this day to read it and now, he had read it more than any of the others.

It was one of John's shorter letters, that ranged from a single page to twelve in length, but it revealed more than any of the others had. Something that scared Sherlock.

The war was getting to his John. The death and violence that John had to go through, even on the side lines, picking up the pieces (sometimes literally), it was starting to get to him and it was starting to show in his letters. Even through the scribbled ink, Sherlock could still read, quite clearly, the lines of nightmares and it hurt. It hurt that John had to go through that. It hurt that he chose to go through it. It hurt that Sherlock couldn't be there, couldn't hold his hand, couldn't shelter him as John had done for him all those times growing up.

Sherlock dropped the letter back on the table after reading it through once more. John promised that he was okay, but that was a lie, wasn't it? He wanted Sherlock to wait, to hold on. 'Three more years' he said, but Sherlock wasn't sure if he could hold on. He was losing strong holds. Three years is a long time to wait for something you can only hope comes back in one piece. If they come back at all.

These letters and the sporadic, choppy phone calls and occasional e-mail were the only things he had to hold onto and even those didn't seem like enough anymore. He needed John. He needed the smell, the feel, the taste, the emotion that was all John and only John. He felt like he was going through withdrawals and it had only been a year.

God, only a year. If he was this bad after only 365 days, what were the next three going to be like? He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't give up on John, not matter how hard it got. He _wouldn't. _He couldn't do that to John. He couldn't do that to himself.

He needed a hobby.

But he had one didn't he? If you could call it that at least, following police cases like an obsessive recluse and leaving anonymous tips hardly counted as a hobby. He wanted to do more, but there was only so much he could do when he wasn't actually part of the force. Mycroft wouldn't help him either, not like he would ever ask. If only he could get into a crime scene and be a part of the action, he was sure he would be able to help, if only they would let him. The Yard was so stupid it was wonder anything got done without Sherlock's help.

He needed air, he needed to breathe.

It was growing close to 11 at night, but still, he pulled on his long black coat and navy blue scarf before heading out onto the streets of London to clear his head.

He enjoyed this time. It was empty and peaceful, especially if he took the back streets. Nobody bothered him and he kept to himself. The cold didn't bother him, if anything, it felt nice on his skin which always felt much too hot after thinking about John.

Sherlock watched his feet as he walked, not paying much attention to where he was going until a cough had him looking up. An alleyway? And not in a very pleasant part of the city either. He usually tried to avoid these areas as they were usually filled with the type of people he would rather not associate with on any means. Desperate beggars, full of filth inside and out. People, if he could call them that, who had lost everything and still yearned for more, who believed that harmful chemicals were the only thing left in their pathetic lives, the only thing that could provide comfort in the pain, bliss in the sorrow. It was annoyingly demeaning, on their part and the rest of the world. To think anyone would resort to such means, and ruin what little brain they had. That they would keep coming back to what was only a temporary fix. It didn't make sense and it disgusted Sherlock.

Another cough, more pronounced this time and clearly meant to draw Sherlock's attention. Sherlock would have ignored it, but as he turned to leave, he came face to face with a rather greasy looking man.

"May I help you?" Sherlock asked, not even trying to hide the annoyance from his tone.

The man smirked and Sherlock could see that he was missing a tooth.

"The question is, may I help you?" he asked. "The name's Julio."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped around the man. "No thank you."

Julio grabbed him by the elbow and Sherlock fought a cringe.

"Hey man, I understand, but I think it could really help. I'm sure I've got what you need."

Sherlock shook his head and not-so-gently tugged his arm away, brushing at his elbow as if that would get rid of the man's grease and presence. "No," he said. God, he would need to wash his coat when he got home.

"Alright man, I hear ya," Julio said, stepping back and raising his hands in surrender. "Just know that you're just like all the rest, and when you break, I'll be here." He smirked at Sherlock's intense and disgusted glare before turning and walking away.

Sherlock gave a slightly offended huff and straightened his coat before roughly sticking his hands in his pockets and heading home.

Sherlock was terrified, more scared than he had ever been in his life. More scared than when his father hit him for the first time or when John told him he was joining the army, more scared then when he left for Afghanistan. Even more than when he realizing that the war was breaking his soldier. All because of seven little words.

_They're sending me out into the field._

Sherlock felt like he couldn't breathe, he didn't know what to do. Not that he _could _do anything, not all the way over in London. John was going out into the firezone and Sherlock could do _nothing. Absolutely nothing._

And it terrified him beyond function.

Nightmares started. On the rare occasion that he found himself able to sleep, John would be shot down and lay bleeding to death while Sherlock watched, paralyzed, unable to move, unable to call for help. Unable to hold him, to sooth him. Unable to promise that he would always be by his side and that everything would be alright.

More than ever the letters became a physical sign that John was still alive, but they were becoming shorter, and the wait for them was becoming longer and longer.

Seven months since the anniversary, six since Sherlock learned that John was going out into the field and only two letters had come, both only a page long and the second one being the cursed note that was slowly ruining Sherlock's life.

That had been sent over two months ago and once again Sherlock found himself wandering the damp back streets of London.

"So you're back then, eh?"

A familiar voice, had Sherlock turning, looking confused. "Do I know you?"

"Don't give me that. I never forget a face, especially one like yours. Haunted, troubled eyes, seeking release. No offense but it's kind of my job to recognize potential clients. I told you you would come back, didn't I?"

Sherlock's face lit up with recognition as he took in the ragged, greasy looking man standing before him.

"Sorry, but I'm not here to buy," Sherlock said, quickly walking away.

"Who are they?"

Sherlock froze.

"Excuse me, what?" he asked, turning around.

"People with eyes like yours usually have somebody, somebody they've lost."

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"Come on," Julio said, stepping closer. "It's not like it's going to hurt anybody."

Sherlock frowned but then found himself speaking despite everything, every part of him screaming at him to walk away.

"John. His name is John."

"See, that's not so bad, so what is he then? Brother? Friend?"

"Boyfriend," Sherlock answered without hesitation.

Julio smirked. "Ah, that makes sense then. You didn't say ex, so you're still together than?" he asked.

"It's complicated," Sherlock answered. "Look, I don't have to tell any of this to you. I won't be coming back here, please don't seek me out."

Before he could turn Julio called for him to wait.

"Your personal life is none of my business, you're right. But I can make you happy through all those… complications." He took Sherlock's hand and stuck a tiny back of fine white powder into the palm. "Try it out alright, free of charge. If you like it, I'll be here. If not, I'll admit defeat and never bother you again."

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the packet and instead of throwing it like he intended he, for unknown reasons, slid it into his pocket.

"Oh and one more thing," Julio said as Sherlock started to walk away. Sherlock paused and looked over his shoulder at the dealer, only to see the man with his signature cocky smirk.

"I'm never wrong."

Two weeks later the small packet of powder sat on the cleared dining room table. Sherlock sat staring at it, as he had been for the past several hours, with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

This had been the longest he had to go without a letter from John and with every passing day, that tiny packet became more tempting. His curiosity grew with every passing glance and he found with disgust that he wanted to try. What was it that had people coming back, why did they seek that high when they would only crash in the end?

Swiping up the packet he carefully opened it.

Only a few hours had passed, but it felt like eternity. The white powder was completely gone, but Sherlock felt at ease, he finally understood. He had misjudged all those scummy people in the back streets. This was glorious.

Staggering down the stairs he swiped up the mail that had been dropped through the slot. And there, right on top was a letter from John.

**Sherlock: 21 Years Old**

It was too much, he couldn't handle it. He had hoped, he had tried but a month had passed and then two and finally another letter from John, it was short and said very little, but it was John.

Sherlock left the flat after reading the letter several times and without completely meaning to, but completely on purpose, Sherlock found himself for the third time in front of Julio.

Julio opened his mouth to let out a snide remark but Sherlock cut him off with two sharp words.

"How much?"

It was two years now, and Sherlock couldn't care less. Five months and no letters or phone calls or e-mails from John and Sherlock still didn't care. Right now, he felt marvelous. Never mind the constant runny nose or the headache or the aches all over his body, those all went away with every hit. Of course coming down wasn't the best, but as long as Julio was around, he could get back up any time he wanted.

He didn't even answer his phone anymore, didn't check his email and the mail was thrown in a pile at the end of the couch.

The best part was the hallucinations. They were vivid and strange, but John was always there, he was always okay. Sherlock couldn't get enough.

Desperate for more, Sherlock was reminded every time he went back that he was Julio's best customer. Sherlock should have been ashamed, but instead he felt pride, and he just didn't care.

He shouldn't have trusted him, he knew that, but still Sherlock had fallen into the trap called Julio. He tried it out and before he knew it, Julio was his savior. His life, his breath, everything that made life okay while John was off possibly dying.

But now all of that was gone. Sherlock couldn't trust anyone else, he _wouldn't._ It had been ten months since that first hit, and Sherlock knew that the drug was his blood. He _had_ to have it and after a week of searching, he was starting to care less and less how he got it or where he got it from.

Another week and then they started. The depression came first, then the anxiety and the aches and pains and chills. When the tremors hit, Sherlock knew he had to do something. When he realized he would claw down a steel door if only half an ounce was on the other side, he picked up the phone.

When Mycroft's phone rang, it didn't much surprise him. He was used to getting phone calls day in and day out. What did surprise him was the name on the screen.

"Hello little brother, fancy hear—"

"Mycroft…." The older brother was cut off by Sherlock's hoarse and weak voice.

"Sherlock, what is it?" He asked his face and tone abruptly going serious as he stood from his desk.

"Help me…. Please."

That was all Mycroft needed to hear as he rushed from his office. He spoke rapidly into the phone, trying to get more information out of Sherlock, but the other end was filled with nothing more than groaning before the line went dead.

Mycroft cursed as he climbed into his car and when he found his brother curled up on the floor despair and sorrow over whelmed him as he ran a hand over his face.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?"

Sherlock shifted between walls of blinding white and complete and utter darkness. He couldn't be sure how much time had passed, but it didn't matter. In the world of white he was sure there were voices. Not that he cared. He just couldn't bring himself to care anymore. He was done.

"Sherlock…..Sherlock…. Sherlock!"

The voice was familiar, but distant and echoey, like it was being shouted down a long, metal pipe. He wished it would go away. He rather enjoyed the darkness and its peaceful emptiness, but the sound of his name being repeated over and over and the constant tapping and shaking was becoming too much to handle and he was forced to roll over and face whoever it was that dared disrupt his peace.

"What?" he asked, his voice rough and slurred with sleep.

"Sit up Sherlock. I have something to tell you."

Mycroft. That's who the voice was. With that mystery solved, Sherlock obeyed, running a hand through his hair as he sat up and leaned back against the wall.

Sherlocked looked to his brother, and while he may not have seen much of him over the years, he knew the face Mycroft was wearing now very well, even through the haze he had been in, and instantly he was more awake. The older brother wore his business face. The I'm-going-to-shut-out-all-emotions-and-get-down-to-business face. It only appeared when Mycroft came bearing bad news.

"Mycroft. What is it, just tell me."

Mycroft sighed and turned his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "You know I don't approve of your relationship of John, I never have. But after…. All of this." He waved his hand over Sherlock and the bed in which the younger man was situated. "It seems you have completely disregarded any warning I ever gave you on becoming attached."

Sherlock opened his mouth to interject with a protest, but Mycroft continued on, pretending not to notice.

"With that being said. I do care for you deeply, despite your thoughts, and I only want what's best for you. Upon seeing the effect of this John Watson, both at your side and away, it seems I have underestimated your need for him and his relationship. All I want to say is that if John is what keeps you from falling to things like cocaine, then I will approve of the relationship."

Sherlock blinked, there was more, he knew and he wasn't quite sure he completely trusted his brother and his approval.

"That is also to say, that with a heavy heart I inform you of something that might cause some shock. And Sherlock, I beg you to please remain calm."

The younger sibling swallowed. "Well get out with it already."

Mycroft took a heavy breath and let it out slowly. "Sherlock, about a month ago, while out treating wounded in the field, Dr. John Watson was shot."

* * *

**So, I got this chapter out much faster than I expected. It was weird to write because it has a much different feel than the rest of the chapters. I hope you enjoyed it all the same, thank you so much for reading! Please, as always, tell me what you think and Chapter 8 should be up in the next couple of days filled with Happy angst. Thank you for reading!**


	8. John: 24 Years Old

**John: 24 Years Old**

As the train pulled away from the station, a man was left standing on the platform as the other passengers hurriedly made their way to the street. John wasn't sure what he was expecting, but despite his efforts, he had secretly hoped that Sherlock would be waiting for him once he got off the train. He knew it was pointless and stupid, he hadn't contacted Sherlock for months, much less told him that he was coming home. Especially once he got shot, he never really had a chance. All the same, that didn't stop him from being silently hopeful of Sherlock's presence and feeling painfully downhearted when, as expected, Sherlock wasn't standing on the platform.

With a sigh, John took his bag onto his good shoulder, secured it in place before starting forward, his cane tapping against the ground.

"John Watson?"

The sound of his name startled him and he turned around, searching for the source. It wasn't hard to find, a tall man in a sharp suit who stared straight at him with steel blue eye.

"Yes?" he asked, hoping this would be quick. He was exhausted and sore and all he wanted was to get home, take a shower and kiss Sherlock senseless.

The man sighed and folded his hands behind his back as he stepped forward to close the few feet of distance between them.

"I know you don't recognize me, but I'm sure you know who I am," he said, watching John as he patiently awaited his response.

John stared at the man with a small frown, taking in every feature, the eyes, the cheekbones, the lips when finally he understood.

"Mycroft?"

"The one and only. Now, may I take your bag? My car is waiting not far from here."

John would have protested, but the bag was difficult enough to carry that he would have taken the help from a convicted felon. He didn't exactly trust the elder Holmes brother, but he knew that the only reason that Mycroft would be here to meet him was if something was terribly wrong pertaining to Sherlock Holmes.

Once they were situated in the car, a very nice and expensive car, John might add, the soldier looked straight at Mycroft.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"221B Baker Street of course. I assumed that's where you wanted to go?"

John frowned, something still wasn't right. "What's wrong with Sherlock?" he asked.

Mycroft frowned and the flicker in his eyes told John that the older brother hadn't expected John to figure it out, at least as quickly as he did.

"He's… fine." Mycroft chose his words carefully.

"But?"

Mycroft sighed and crossed his legs at the knees. "You have to understand John, the world didn't stop turning while you were away."

"Of course not, I would be crazy to think such a thing," John said, his mouth was going dry and there was a sinking in his stomach. He didn't like where this was going.

"Yes, well, all I want to say is that Sherlock has changed. He's not the man you left, he's been through some… things, that have been very hard on him the past couple of years."

John hadn't expected otherwise, but the way Mycroft said it, he was starting to expect the worst. What had happened to Sherlock the past three years that would constitute Mycroft as a personal escort? Suddenly John was very nervous about what awaited him at home.

"Sherlock is still there, on Baker Street, right?" John asked, hiding the nerves from his voice.

Mycroft nodded. "Indeed."

"Does he know? That I'm back I mean."

This time the older Holmes shook his head. "He doesn't know that I've been keeping tabs on you. You're state and whereabouts and the like. He's had… other things to occupy his time."

John frowned. What wasn't Mycroft telling him? He wanted to press, but at this point he felt that he would have a better chance at getting an answer out of Sherlock himself.

"If only you came here to do was tell me that Sherlock changed and I shouldn't expect things to be the same, why the personal escort, why tell me in the first place?" John asked.

"Because John Watson. I came to the realization about what you mean to my brother and contrary to popular belief, I do care about him very deeply. You keep him grounded, John. You keep his mind clear and keep him sane. Without you, well, let's just say I'd rather have him lower himself to accept your standards." He leaned back against the seat and continued. "All I want is what is best for Sherlock."

John frowned, still not fully understanding, but before he could ask more questions, the car pulled to a stop along the curb. John stepped out onto the sidewalk and leaned back in the car. "Are you not coming inside?"

Mycroft smiled and shook his head. "No, I'm afraid that my brother will have no more of me today. Take care John, watch out for Sherlock."

John stepped back and watched the car until it disappeared at the end of the street.

Taking a deep breath he limped his way over to the door, but then hesitated with his hand on the handle. Should he knock? Was this still considered his house? He debated only a moment before opening the door, figuring that his knocks more than likely wouldn't be answered anyways.

The place was silent as he made his way up the stairs. Anticipation grew and John struggled to keep his breath steady. The door was closed and John knew that behind it was the man he had been without for three years. A drastically changed man. A man he knew he would love no matter what those changes were.

John wasn't sure what to expect when he opened the door, but he knew he didn't expect everything to be so… ordinary. Everything was almost how he had left it, if not a bit messier, and a lot more cluttered. Sherlock was nowhere in sight as John stepped in and dropped his bag by the couch.

"Mrs. Hudson, how many times do I have to tell you, I—"

Sherlock froze as he entered the sitting room, brandishing a steaming cup. His voice failed him as he realized that, in fact, it was _not_ Mrs. Hudson that had entered the flat.

"John." The man's voice was barely above a whisper as a flood of emotions passed over his face and through his body. His tea dropped, the cup breaking into pieces and the liquid spilling all over the floor.

John wasn't sure how to react either. He had wanted this, waited for this moment. Endless fantasies of how the scene would play out. No words just kisses. Endless utterances of their names. A closeness, a tightness in their grasps as they refused to let each other go ever again.

But it was never like this, countless imaginings never prepared him for the actual moment and there he stood, facing the man he loved so deeply and all he could do was say, "I'm home," with a weak voice and a half-hearted smile.

Sherlock half stepped, half stumbled forward as shaking hands reached up and touched his face.

John leaned into the touch, his eyes drifting closed. Sherlock's fingers were a little rough, but he didn't mind, they could have been sandpaper and he would have relished in the feel of Sherlock's touch on his skin once more.

"I thought you were dead."

Those five words had John's eyes shooting open.

"What?" he asked in disbelief.

"I thought you were dead John. Mycroft told me you were shot and then wouldn't tell me anymore, I just assumed…."

John couldn't believe it, and to think that Mycroft, for a moment, had started to grow on him.

"I'm alive. I'm so very much alive," John said, feeling the need to verbally reassure his lover that even though he was standing there, physically, under Sherlock's touch, he was indeed alive. He pulled Sherlock's hand from his face, winding his fingers around it. "And God Sherlock, I missed you."

Sherlock seemed to melt and taking his chance, John wrapped a hand up in that mess of dark curls and pulled him close for a heart shattering kiss.

It lasted only a moment, but that was all the needed. When they pulled away, they shared the same look in their eyes. Love and relief and comfort.

Sherlock wound a long arm around John's waist and rested his forehead against that of the shorter man.

"You know, I feared the worst coming up here, Mycroft sat me down for a talk on the way over here and I thought something horrible had happened," John said softly.

Sherlock didn't question his brothers intervening as he gave an answer to John's unasked question.

"Cocaine, a year and seven months after you left. Continued on for about 10 months before my supplier disappeared and I realized I needed help. I called Mycroft, he got me into rehab and I managed to do well enough to be released a couple of weeks ago."

John pulled back. _Drugs? _He never would have imagined that Sherlock would have resorted to such a thing.

"God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," he muttered, feeling on the verge of tears. He didn't have to say what for, Sherlock knew, even if he didn't reply any more than to just pull John closer into his chest.

Now John knew what Mycroft was talking about. Sherlock was changed. He was broken, shattered, but in a way different than before. John didn't care. All he knew was that Sherlock now had him back in his arms. He had a doctor to pick up the pieces and mend him back together. He had a soldier to protect him. And most of all, he had a lover to stay forever with him and to always remind him that everything was alright.

* * *

**Hello dear readers! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and that it made up for all the drama of the last two chapters. I am sad to say that we are nearing out end. I only have a couple more chapters planned before this story finishes, but not to despair yet, because that means there is still more to come! Thank you so much for reading and please tell me what you think!  
**


	9. John: 26 Years Old

**John: 26 Years Old**

Two years, John could hardly believe it had been so long. Nothing major had happened, but they days had flown by with ease. Sherlock had somehow wormed his way in with the Scotland Yard. John wasn't quite sure when that had happened, but at some point they were off running around helping the Yard solve minor cases. Sherlock was more than annoyed that they refused to let him in on any of the murders or more violent cases, but John always soothed him with a kiss—and sometimes more, on the bad days.

Sherlock Holmes was becoming quite a name around London. A few times in the papers and people were stopping him on the street asking for help. John was certain that half the cases they took were because he was there, making sure Sherlock didn't act like the inconsiderate arse he tended to be with almost everybody. Sherlock had eventually created a website with his contact information and soon the requests were coming in steady, though when he started testing tobacco ash, John wasn't certain.

John himself had started seeing a therapist to help with the reaccuring nightmares of the war. Sherlock didn't like it, and was very vocal about the fact. He didn't see why John had to go in the first place. "That simple minded monkey can't do anything more than what I can and have already done for you here" as he so kindly and gently put it, but John only smiled and proceeded to attend the sessions.

Sherlock was persistent though, often following John secretly to sessions until John finally caught him and convinced him to stop. Much to Sherlock's pleasure, the sessions became less frequent as the years rolled on and by this point, they were only once a month for more of a check-up than anything.

"You're in the paper again," John noted from the table, sipping at his tea and not glancing up as Sherlock came striding in from god knows where.

"Unsurprising," Sherlock said dully, collapsing into his chair and kicking off his shoes.

"They got a picture this time."

Sherlock bolted up from his slumped position. Half a second later he was peering over John's shoulder at the decent sized back and white picture of him leaving the previously robbed Jewelry store. It had taken him not a minute to solve the case, and he was sure that even people as stupid as the Scotland Yard could have solved it, given time, but apparently, Lestrade, Sally _and_ Anderson, had all found themselves on the force in some form or another, (Sherlock would love to meet the insolent git who allowed Anderson to make it that far in life) and he was certain that Lestrade just loved showing him off.

"They could have taken a picture of a more interesting case, like the kidnapping from last week," Sherlock grumbled, annoyed.

"Newpapers are funny that way, they like to blow things out of proportion, and they spelled your name wrong again," John said, slightly amused.

Sherlock let his eyes leave the picture to read the subtitle.

"How hard is it to remember one letter. Holmes! H-O-L-M-E-S! With an L! Even illiterate idiots like these should be able to get that right!" he cried, outraged by the recurring mistake as he grabbed the paper from John's hand and slapping his other hand against it before tossing it to the side.

"So, where did you run off to?" John asked, unfazed as he changed the subject. He turned in his seat to face his boyfriend as the taller man collapsed back into his chair, slouching with an annoyed pout.

"Places," Sherlock muttered as he tapped his fingers rapidly against the armrest.

John rose an eyebrow, for a man so keen on detail, that was surprisingly vague.

"What are you hiding Sherlock?"

Sherlock's attention snapped to meet John's. "Me? I'm not hiding anything."

John stared him down for a minute before Sherlock caved.

"Oh, if you must know," he growled, standing and fishing something out of his jacket pocket. Wrangling it free, he set the small square box down hard and unceremoniously on the corner of the desk in front of John. "I was out buying that."

John frowned, looking between Sherlock and the box, hesitating before picking it up. He had a feeling that he knew what it was.

Bringing the box to set in his hand before him, he opened it up, stared at it a moment then looked up at Sherlock.

"Is this—"

"Yes."

"Are you serious?"

"Since when am I not serious John."

"I don't understand."

"It's a ring John. I'm proposing that we get married. I didn't think I would have had to spell it out for you."

"Yes, yes, I know that, it's just… a surprise…"

John looked from Sherlock, back down the thin silver twisted band that sat in the box.

"I don't see why it should be," Sherlock countered. "We've been dating steadily for about six years, now, it's only logical that we 'seal the bond' as they say."

John simply nodded.

"So?"

John looked up. "So?"

"What is your answer? And know that I understand and won't be heartbroken if you say no."

John looked at him a little confused before shaking his head, his eyes falling back on the ring.

"I don't see why not…. I mean yes." He looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes with a bright smile. "Of course yes. I would love to marry you Sherlock Holmes." Standing, he closed the box and set it back on the desk, pulling his new fiancée close and kissing him deeply.

And in that moment even Mrs. Hudson down stairs could feel the happiness radiating between the two men.

* * *

**Here you go guys! I'm sorry this took so long to get out, I hit a kind of wall inspiration wise and school kind of caught up with me with all it's work. Sorry this chapter isn't very long either, but hopefully you still enjoyed it! Please review and tell me what you think, next chapter is the wedding! Hopefully I'll have that one up a little sooner. Hope you enjoyed and again, please comment and tell me what you think!  
**


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